Young Writers Society

Empathy was hell, he had decided.

Booker had been sitting by Eva's side for the better part of five hours, clutching her hand, whispering encouragement. Every groan of agony, every violent jerk on Eva's part pulled at his stomach and tugged at his heart. Her pain was his pain. And he hated it. Booker silently wished he was out of the room where Eva's sweating face could only be speculation, not reality.

He had once read about an Indian tribe who had a tradition during childbirth where the husband's testicles were tied to a rope, and pulled by the laboring wife when she felt a painful contraction, so that the male shared the pain of childbirth. Screw the testicles, Booker thought to himself as Eva suffered a particularly violent contraction. He really didn't need any help feeling his wife's monumental pain.

Booker shook his head. And screw his commiserating human emotions.

Exactly five hours after Booker had rushed Eva into the maternity ward, a doctor motioned for him to step outside. The man was broad shouldered and rough looking, nearly bulging out of his tight fitting white coat. He looked more like a jarhead, than a baby catcher. Booker half expected to find a pair of dog tags around his neck in place of a stethoscope.

“Mr. Lee, we have some bad news.”

Booker waited for him to go on.

“Your wife's amniotic sac has ruptured.”

“This blank face should be telling you something, doc.”

“Well, a ruptured amniotic sac means there's pretty high possibility we'll have to preform a c-section on her. Cord prolapse could follow the rupture and I'd have a stillbirth on my hands.”

“Do we have a choice?”

The doctor shook his head. “Not really. It's a c-section or a brain dead kid. There's your choice.”

“Have you told Eva yet?”

“Someone's letting her know right now.”

“I'm tired, doc.”

“Ever tried having a child, Mr. Lee?”

“Well, at least she gets pain killer when this is all over. Do I get a shot of Morphine? Nope. I get a pat on the back and a cigar.”

“We have a coffee shop down stairs.”

“Well, thank God for caffeine,” Booker said with a sigh. “You've got my permission, doctor.”

“You'll have to wait outside during the operation. We have a window if you'd like to watch.”

“I'd rather save my testicles, thanks.”

“What?”

“Nothing. When will operation take place?”

“Immediately.”

The door to Eva's room was flung open and a gurney laden with Booker's pregnant wife was rolled out, guided by a pair of nurses. Booker grasped Eva's hand and kept pace with the medics as they walked briskly down the antiseptic white hallway. Her eyes were large and frightened, looking from Booker to her swollen stomach. Her grip was like a vice, clamping his hand in place. Booker half wondered if she'd ever let go. The fear written on her face was reflected as an iron hold on his wrist.

The Rigor mortis of childbirth.

“I'm scared,” she whispered, biting her lip.

“But I'm here, Eva. I'm always here.”

Eva looked up at Booker expressionlessly and said simply. “I know.”

“Sir?” A nurse wielding a clipboard asked Booker as they halted in front of an operating room. “Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave now. This is a closed surgery.”

Booker and Eva locked eyes for a moment, unconscious of anything else around them. He squeezed her hand and smiled. “Everything is going to be fine.”

Eva nodded, remained silent, and let go of his hand. The nurse wheeled the gurney into the room and shut the door. Another scrub-clad woman put a hand on Booker's shoulder and showed him into a neighboring room. In it were several chairs, a coffee table strewn with magazines, and a large rectangular window in the room overlooking the surgery. Booker could already see the surgeon's scalpel hovering over Eva's belly. He looked away. It was strange that he could watch drug recipients and shop owners gunned down or knifed to death, but he couldn't watch a simple surgery. It was the same blood, the same flesh, the same pain.

But then again, it was a different person.

A surge of bile rose to the back of his throat as he glanced the scalpel cutting into Eva's belly like a carving knife slicing a thanksgiving turkey. He wasn't going to sit and watch this.

“The surgery could take more than an hour, sir. There's a restroom down the hall and a cafeteria on the first floor.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem. Anything you need, just let me know. And I'm sure your wife will be fine.”

Booker nodded. The nurse left, closing the door behind her. He looked once more at the operating table offering up it's human sacrifice to the surgeons, shook his head and followed the nurse out of the room. Overwhelming fatigue suddenly crashed over him as he found an elevator stepped into it. This was his first minute away from his wife's side. And the full effect of the late night raid buckled his knees. Booker needed to sleep or to shoot-up with speed. And he knew the latter wasn't an unlikely possibility. He was more tempted though, to walk into an empty hospital room, commandeer a bed, and draw the curtains. But he didn't want to wake up thirty minutes later to some shrill, underpaid nurse. He pressed the down button and the elevator doors slid shut.

A cup of coffee seemed to be his only option.

The elevator bellied at floor one, Booker stepped out, and began walking in no particular direction. He was going to be a father! He was going to be raising a child. Booker suddenly realized he knew absolutely zero about bringing up a kid. Street punks who belonged behind bars rather than behind guns had been his parents. They had taught him everything to know about the world. You hold a joint like so, Bookie. The fear of his lifestyle reflecting on the life of his little girl resurfaced. Who the hell did he think he was, being a father? He was in no shape to be a role model. He never would be. The past and the future loomed too large for him to have any positive affect on anybody. It would be impossible for any kid to live a normal life with him still under the roof. What had he been thinking?

But you are not your father.

As he wandered into the cafeteria and got in line at a Starbucks, Booker began to doubt his motto. He didn't know that. He didn't know whether or not he was like his father. He could tell himself he wasn't a killer every day of his life, but that still wouldn't vilify the fact he'd shot countless men and women. Convincing himself he was not a petty drug dealer didn't discount the fact he'd moved innumerable pounds of Meth and Cocaine and Heroine to helpless addicts. How did he know he was only repressing his true nature? Conversions were temporary things. Once a sinner, always a sinner. There were no priests who could wipe his slate. There were no prayers that could erase what he had done.

And even an ocean of holy water couldn't bleach his criminal record.

Booker paid for a latte and shoved his doubts aside. He was just nervous. Things would be fine. He had to stay by Eva's side through this ordeal. For now, anyway. The coffee still tasted like ash though, as he took a sip. He was worried, excited, frightened out of his skull. What would they name her? Claire? Booker would like that. His child would be a shrine to his mother. Proof that despite his father's dogma, he could still be a normal person.

You are not your father.

Glancing into gift shops and waiting rooms, Booker slowly made his way back to the elevator, sipping the steaming coffee. He was feeling better already. More awake and aware. But he still wasn't in any hurry to get back to Eva's operation. He fumbled in his pocket for his cell phone and flipped it open. It had been twenty minutes already. No doubt the surgeons were fishing around Eva's entrails for the baby, pushing aside her stomach flesh, wiping bloody latex on apron fronts... Booker shivered inwardly as he found the elevator and stepped inside. The tiny space lurched, began moving upward, and soft muzak trickled out of the speakers. His mind drifted back to the baby. They would have to move out of Village Gardens eventually. It was too small for a family. Booker had enough money stored away now that he could purchase a house on the outskirts of Los Angeles. He wanted his little girl as far away from the big city as possible. A young mind was an easy thing to corrupt in the downtown slums. Claire...

Booker walked back out into the maternity ward and headed toward the surgery room. He noticed several policemen outside the door, badges glinting in the florescent light, a lieutenant speaking quietly to the broad shouldered doctor. He was gesturing insistently at the waiting room with the window viewing Eva's surgery. Booker stopped, his senses heightening. Each of the policemen had their guns drawn – ready to shoot, expecting a struggle – and the lieutenant was holding a photograph. Booker squinted at it and his heart began beating at his ribcage. It was a picture of his face.

They were looking for him.

Booker took in a deep breath and stepped back slowly. Stay calm, collect yourself, you can get out of this. He racked his mind for a reason – any reason – they would be looking for him.

The raid.

But he hadn't left behind any evidence. He had been wearing a mask. Their had been no survivors. He hadn't even fired a gun. As he backtracked toward the elevator, Booker saw a policeman exit the surgery room and look down the hall. Their eyes met for a split second and Booker knew he had been caught. Swearing, he spun around, sprinted for the elevator and mashed his finger on the down button. Shouts erupted behind him.

“Booker Lee. We have the hospital surrounded. You are under arrest. Please submit peacefully,” a bullhorn blared. He heard several men begin running down the tiled hall.

“The hell I will,” Booker hissed and the elevator opened. He didn't move. Three more policemen stared back at him, frozen. You are a Black Dragon now, my jian. You strike and you strike hard. There is no mercy in a Dragon's eyes. Fight. And fight hard.

Now.

Flipping the lid off of the Styrofoam cup in his hand, Booker flung the scalding coffee into the face of the man on the right – his wounded shoulder screaming in acute pain – simultaneously lunging for the middle man and wrapping his arm around his neck in a head lock. Before the third officer had time to react, Booker lashed out with his foot, kicking his groin as hard as he could. The footsteps down the hall were getting louder. Taking the struggling middle man's head in both hands, he jerked down hard, feeling the neck snap like a carrot stick in his grip. He elbowed the groaning, scalded officer in the nose and reached down to snatch the dead man's gun from his holster, ramming it forward and then back, disengaging the security lock. Spinning around, he fired twice at the third policeman. Blood and shattered bone spattered the wall behind him. Grunting, gritting his teeth, Booker brought the gun butt down on the remaining officer's head. The man let out a gasp and fell over unconscious. Booker kicked the down button again and the doors began sliding shut. Several policemen appeared on the other side of the closing exit and opened fire, bursts of light emanating from the barrels of their guns, bullets rebounding off of the sliding steel. Booker flung himself against the left wall, chest heaving, eyes screwed shut. The elevator lurched and headed back to the first floor.

A radio crackled from a dead policeman, “He's heading down again! Seal off all exits. I want a man on every fire escape and every door. Lock this bastard in!” Trying to ignore the bodies, Booker reached down and detached the radio from the man with the broken neck, shoved the gun behind his belt, and punched the red emergency stop. He was a monster. A killer. These men all had families, friends, homes. He surveyed the two bloody corpses and the heavily burned face of the only living officer.

What had he done?

As the elevator ground to a screeching halt, Booker reached up, standing on the balls of his feet and wrenched the lever locking the emergency ceiling exit aside. His hands slippery with blood, Booker heaved himself into the elevator shaft and rolled out of the grisly space below. The shaft was cool and dark, with a slight oily tinge to the air. Tucking the radio into his pocket, Booker grasped the cable attached to the elevator – blood mixing with oil - and began hauling himself up. He reached the second floor entrance and extended his arm as far as it would go, both legs wrapped firmly around the cable. His fingers only tickled the ledge. Gasping he reached even further, nearly dislocating his inflamed shoulder, and firmly caught the ledge. With his other hand he pulled himself onto it and touched the emergency open button. With a ding, the doors slid open.

The floor was practically empty. There were no police officers at least. Nurses and visitors gaped at his oil and blood stained clothing as he sprinted passed them, shouting for them to get out of the way. The radio crackled in his pocket. Now they knew he wasn't in the elevator anymore. Booker sped up. He saw the fire escape at the end of a concourse almost immediately, guarded on either side by a pair of policemen, eyes alert, jaws set. He yanked the gun out of his pocket and began firing, screaming at the top of his lungs. The two men didn't have a chance to react; they dropped to the ground like stones. Someone screamed.

Suddenly sobbing, Booker bulled his way out of the fire escape and ran down the wrought iron steps. His heart felt inflamed and ice cold at the same time. His vision blurred as he reached the final platform, leaped off and tumbled ten feet down. Booker's legs crumpled beneath him as he landed and it took him a full thirty seconds to get back up.

What had he done?

The radio was spewing swearwords and orders, but he ignored it, running blindly for the parking lot. Half of him didn't care if he was caught anymore. He had erased all the progress that had been made. It would be a long and winding road to get back to where he had been before.

Eva... Eva, I had to! I swear I'm sorry! Forgive me. Please forgive me. I'm not my father. I'm not a killer.

Ducking from car to car in the parking lot, dodging moving ambulances, Booker caught sight of the Mercedes.

I know, darling.

Policemen were now pouring out of the hospital. Booker swore, opened the car door, leapt into his seat and gunned the engine.

Do you really?

Booker pulled out of the space, and mashed his foot down on the gas, skidding as he exited the hospital premises. He swerved into traffic and pushed the car's engine has hard as he could.

Eva's voice was silent.

There was no answer.

My main worry for this chapter is pacing. How'd I do?